eakfast in a smoke-filled room.

With a hasty excuse, he darted out; then, his heart as lead, climbed
home. Poor Mrs. Kukor! Poor daughter Rebecca! Poor baby, whose mamma
had a "bad sicknus!" And, yes, poor husband, Mr. Reisenberger!--even
though he was "awful rich."

The broom had swept from under the stove those lengths of clothesline.
With more philosophical wags of the head, Johnnie fastened them end to
end with weaver's knots, and rehung the rope, knowing as he worked that
he could never again bear to telephone along that mended line.

"Gee! Barber spoils ev'rything!" he declared.

After the rope was up he felt weak. He sat down at the table, thin legs
curled round the rungs of the kitchen chair, clean elbows on the
restored oilcloth, a big fist propping each cheek; and presently found
himself listening, waiting, his eyes on the hall door. At every noise,
he gave a start, and hope added its shine to that other shine which soap
had left on his face.

And so the long morning passed. Shortly after noon, he carried dinner in
to Big Tom, and took away the breakfast dishes. Grandpa went as far as
the door with him, and opened grave, baby eyes at sight of his prostrate
son. "Oh, Tommie sick!" he whispered, frightened. "Poor Tommie sick!"

"Shut up!" growled "poor Tommie," roughly, and Grandpa backed off
quickly, with soft tap-taps.

"Maybe y' better have a doctor," essayed Johnnie, practically, and as
calmly as he might have said it to Cis.

"You mind your business."

The afternoon was longer than the morning. Johnnie sat at the table
again. His face was hot, and he kept a dipper of water in front of him
so that he could take frequent draughts. Sometimes he watched his patch
of sky; sometimes he shut his eyes and read from the burned books, or
looked at their pictures; now and then he slept--a few minutes at a
time--his head on his arms.

Toward evening, though rested physically, he found his spirits again
drooping. Bravely as he had started the day, its hours of futile waiting
had tried him. (Could it be possible that grief was a matter of the
clock?) As twilight once more moved upon the city it brought with it the
misery, the loneliness and the pain which had been his just twenty-four
hours before. Oh, where, he asked himself, was the light step, the
tender voice, the helpful hand of her who had hurried home to him every
nightfall of the past?

He understood then what a difference there could be between bod